Aziraphale and Crowley at the beach.
Neither one of them particularly likes sunscreen. It’s gooey. But human bodies burn in the sun, especially with all that recent business about the ozone.
The way each one of them handles this is different.
Aziraphale, wanting to play fair, wears a long beach robe. Mint-green, by preference. This sort of thing went out of fashion a long time ago, or very possibly was never in fashion at all, but Aziraphale considers himself above the vagaries of fashion.1 He sits under a beach umbrella, sipping cocktails, and reads an edifying book.
Crowley cheats blatantly, lying in full-on sun until steam simmers off him, wearing a glaringly ugly red and black speedo, sunglasses for once entirely appropriate.
“You should be burning, my dear.”
“I should be doing all sorts of things, according to you. I should be helping little old ladies across the street, or rescuing that fellow out there going down for the third time–”
“Oh, dear - where?”
“Just over there, past the reef.”
“Thank you–” 2
“But I’m not doing any of those things, am I. I refuse to submit to the ineffable plan.”
“You cheeky devil, you.”
“Thanks. Now hand me my margarita.”
_ _
Because that’s much easier than admitting he doesn’t understand it at all. ↩︎
Later, that man will stare at himself in the mirror, and admit to himself that yes, indeed, a wave did lift him up, hang him under its curl until he’d coughed out the water, and then dump him unceremoniously on the beach, whispering as it dribbled away: and stay out! ↩︎